


Going Once

by Vash137



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mycroft has terrible body image issues, Shy!croft, UST, WIP, body image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vash137/pseuds/Vash137
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt-fic: Mycroft gets roped into participating in a bachelor auction. Terrified that nobody will bid on him, he begs Sherlock via text: 'Please save me from this; bid on me, and I will do anything you ask me to do.'  Lestrade receives the text instead. </p><p>Chinese Translation Here: <a href="http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=44085">In Chinese</a></p><p>Original prompt here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=71661956t71661956</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Mycroft has really a awful self impression of his body in this fic in regards to his weight that I don't think is at all reflective of what he actually looks like. This could be triggery for some. 
> 
> This fic is currently unbritpicked and unbetaed. WIP. Figured I had enough of this written to start posting it in a more easily followed format than the meme. Any and all feedback welcome.

When D.I. Lestrade had invited Mycroft Holmes to participate in the New Scotland Yard annual holiday fund-raiser for widows and orphans, he'd never expected to have been drafted into the bachelor's auction. Mycroft could forgive himself the oversight. Why on earth would anyone, especially someone as experienced and (objectively speaking) attractive as the DI, consider Mycroft of all people to be a draw for a bachelor's auction? Admittedly, Mycroft wasn't obese anymore. He'd ruthlessly cut all indulgences from his diet five years ago, after he'd almost collapsed climbing the three flights of stairs to the squat where his brother had last decided to overdose himself on cocaine. The excess skin had also been surgically removed; and the scars were barely visible, certainly not through Mycroft's three piece suit. He wouldn't be required to remove clothing for the event, would he? It couldn't be that kind of auction, and besides, the thought of anyone being inspired to donate more money after seeing Mycroft's middle aged, pasty form was beyond comprehension. The entire thing was beyond comprehension.

"I'll simply have to bow out," Mycroft said, sipping his morning coffee at his desk as his PA tapped away on the other side at her Blackberry. She was going by Callisto this week, 'working through the Greek myths with my niece' she'd offered by way of explanation.. Mycroft knew better than to ask further.

"Why?" Callisto kept her gaze fixed on her Blackberry, "We'll have the attendees thoroughly vetted of course. It shouldn't pose a significant security risk. Certainly nothing like the wedding last week in Pakistan. Besides," her fingers paused for a second before resuming their flutter over the keys, "You need to get out more."

"I'm out constantly."

"Apart from work."

"I enjoy my work."

"Of course, sir." Callisto only called him sir when they were in public, or when she was being sarcastic.

"But this could be a fine opportunity for you to make a good impression." Her lips quirked in a half smile. "On a certain DI."

A half a bottle of white wine and a chocolate pastry on his birthday had lead him to share far too many revelations. "I thought we agreed not to discuss that further."

"You agreed, just before you passed out. I said nothing."

"Well, I fail to see how the humiliation of having nobody bid on me will enhance my standing in anybody's eyes."

"Excuse me?" Callisto snapped the Blackberry shut and looked up to meet his eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. I can simply make a large cash donation and withdraw. They'll have to change their brochure, not a considerable loss. My brother must have given the organizers that photograph of me out of some form of spite, though truthfully it's one of my better ones." In that he at least looked basically put together and stood a three quarter angle which minimized his gut.

Callisto said, "I gave them the photograph."

Now Mycroft was baffled. "Why?"

"Because you look good in it."

Callisto had joined Mycroft's staff when he was halfway towards his weight loss goal, when he'd been neither obese nor thin but in some horrible in-between state where he resembled dripping candle wax, so she could be forgiven for having an irrationally positive view of his general appearance now.

Callisto added, "Your favourite Detective Inspector agreed."

"He did?" Mycroft tapped his index finger against the side of his coffee cup. "He said he found the photograph acceptable?"

"He said he liked it."

Mycroft's cheeks warmed and a strange bird fluttered where his heart ought to have been. How foolish was this, to read so much into an offhanded comment that couldn't possibly have any meaning beyond social politeness? Mycroft knew his strengths: intellect, observation, decision analysis, and a certain ability to manipulate large scale social dynamics with a well chosen word or action. Unlike his brother, who in spite of all effort possessed a form of ethereal charm, Mycroft was at best presentable.

Occasionally, though not as often since he'd started wearing the wedding band, someone propositioned Mycroft in hopes of gaining some greater advantage, as though he couldn't see their revulsion painted in the stiffness of their smiles, the narrowness of their pupils, and the orientation of their feet. Even knowing he had no other options, Mycroft found such offers repugnant. If he was going to pay to satisfy his baser urges, he'd rather an honest business transaction than a farce. But in his heart, which unlike his brother Mycroft freely admitted to having, he wanted more. Someone he could love, and who would in some small sense reciprocate that affection. Given that, Mycroft would do anything in his considerable power to make his partner happy, satisfied, and successful.

Unfortunately, such things were out of his control and thus out of his reach. He could, however, control the impression he made, if indeed he chose to go through with this. Which he was considering, God help him. His brother was right; emotions did make a mess of things.

"Callisto," Mycroft said, "You have to bid on me. Up to £ 10,000. I'll ensure you have the appropriate funds."

Callisto took a breath, her fingers resting on the top of her Blackberry. "Mycroft."

"I understand this is entirely a personal matter, and you have no need to oblige me."

"You underestimate yourself."

"Excuse me?"

Callisto raised the Blackberry back to her eyes and began typing again. "Of course I'll bid on you. If you need it, which I doubt."

"Thank you," Mycroft said. But one bidder wouldn't be enough. He couldn't pull someone from undercover work for this. It was bad enough he'd roped in his P.A. Nor could he depend on one of the acquaintances he deemed friends at socially appropriate moments. It would provide them too much of an advantage. Which left him, unfortunately, with only one viable option. God, but Sherlock was going to be insufferable about this.


	2. Chapter 2

"Listen, freak," Donovan's voice came through loud and irate through the closed door to Lestrade's office. "New Scotland Yard isn't your personal playground! You can't-"

"I certainly can and will, Donovan. Do you really think waving that badge at me is going to make any material difference in my actions?"

Lestrade had his window and door blinds closed to reduce distractions; through them the shadows of two figures, one medium height and female, the other tall, lean and obviously Sherlock, made a steady advance. Lestrade closed his eyes. All he wanted was for once to get caught up on his paperwork.

Sherlock threw open the door to Lestrade's office, coat flaring as he crossed the threshold. "Lestrade, how could you!"

Donovan stumbled in a step after. "I'm so sorry, sir! I was just getting rid of him."

"With obvious success," Sherlock said, his eyes not quite rolling, but close enough. He took a step towards Lestrade's desk and said, "I need to speak with you. Alone. It's of the utmost importance."

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade opened his eyes. "I see," he said in his mildest tone. There wasn't any point in winding Sherlock up, especially when Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was on about, which was more often than not. "If you're here about the body in the dryer, her boyfriend confessed an hour ago."

"Dryer? No! I'm here on a matter of significance."

"Yes," Donovan cut in. "Because dead bodies don't get you off after the murderer is found."

"Dead bodies don't get me off at all, as I'm sure you're more than aware, considering-"

"Donovan," Lestrade raised his voice to cut over the two of them. God, but Sherlock brought out the worst in people. Donovan was a good cop, methodical and detail oriented, and Sherlock was unequivocally brilliant, but together they were worse than Lestrade's brother's two year old twins. Lestrade said, "I'll speak with Sherlock. And please, I know you two don't get along, but I'd appreciate it if you both _tried_ to make an effort."

Both started at the same time, "I don't see why-"

"Thank you," Lestrade said, waving to his spare chair beside his desk. A stack of case files was piled on top of it. "Now Sherlock, please sit down."

"Sir," Donovan said, taking a step back towards the door. She mumbled something under her breath as it shut behind her.

Lestrade said, "Sherlock, how can I help you?'

Sherlock ignored the chair, as Lestrade had expected, instead pacing the three step length of his desk in short, angry steps. "I've been informed that you invited _Mycroft_ to participate in your annual charity auction."

"That's true."

"You chose to auction off Mycroft without even asking me?"

"He's your brother-"

"Archenemy."

"All the more reason for me to be able to consult him without your permission."

"But why didn't you ask me? I would be the far superior choice."

These two took sibling rivalry to new heights. Or lows. Lestrade bit back a laugh, managing to cough it behind his hand. "So you want to participate in the auction. Have you discussed this with John? Are you sure he'll be okay with that?"

"Of course he won't. I just don't understand why I wasn't asked. And what's so amusing? I'm brilliant and certainly attractive enough, especially considering you're resorting to using Mycroft."

"Your brother-"

"Archenemy."

"Mycroft is a fine looking man."

Sherlock screwed his face up in an overly dramatic grimace. "My God, Lestrade, I don't want to hear about your—just, don't put my brother and attractive in the same conversation if you care about my health at all."

"You're the one who brought it up attractiveness," Lestrade didn't bother trying to hide his amusement any longer. "So what brought this on? You've never read the newsletter before, except that one time when you thought the blood spatter analyst might be a serial killer. I'm amazed he didn't sue you for harassment."

"It was a theory, not a conclusion." Sherlock sighed. "Well, there's nothing for it. If Mycroft is going to involve himself, I'll have no choice but to add myself as well."

"No."

"Oh please, it's a five minute process to add a photo using any desktop publishing software." Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a USB dive. "I've added a simple mock-up of the altered brochure here."

"Absolutely not."

"You haven't even looked at it."

"I mean, you're not participating. Nobody will bid on you."

"But I'm brilliant and-"

"And you can't open your mouth without insulting someone, and worse, enough people who are attending know this. And even for those hopeless cases for whom tall, dark and confrontational might be a turn on, namely that poor pathologist from Barts, everyone at the Yard has seen the video of you snogging the life out of your flatmate in the interrogation room after that incident with the candlestick. The damned thing would have went viral if your brother hadn't intervened."

"Now who's being insulting? If the people attending your function are too idiotic to recognize-"

"I can't risk you." Or the poor person whose life Sherlock ended up ruining out of sheer boredom between the wine and appetizers, that is if the poor 'winner' hadn't fled for the Continent after John gave him or her a gentle talking to about acceptable and unacceptable expectations for their platonic dinner. What an unbelievable nightmare. "Imagine what it will do to our team if Donovan wins. Or Anderson."

Sherlock's expression froze. "Anderson? He couldn't possibly afford it."

"He's come into some money. His aunt. I'm sure you already knew this. Besides, him and Donovan might pool their resources to have you at their beck and call for a day."

"No, I uhh...your point is well taken."

"You're welcome to attend, of course. Place a bid or two."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and walked to the chair. He picked up the pile of case files and placed them with surprising care onto the floor, then sat. "That's the crux of my problem."

"You're not obligated to bid."

"My bro—Mycroft is a controlling, self important prat with propensities for world domination. It would be beneficial to have him owe me a favour, for a change."

"I'm not sure what this has to do with the auction."

"Yes, well, you wouldn't be."

"Did you want my advice or not?"

Sherlock's trouser pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone and tapped at the keys. "God, but he's insufferable."

"Mycroft?" Lestrade ventured.

"You are learning!" Sherlock placed the phone between his palms and leaned towards Lestrade, elbows on knees. He sat like that, staring, studying, for close to fifteen seconds, then his lips turned up in one of his rare (except with John, Lestrade presumed) smiles. "You'll simply have to do it."

"Do what? And I'm not agreeing to do anything."

"Yes, it's perfect." Sherlock jumped to his feet again. Dropping the phone into his pocket, he clapped his hands together. "He'll really owe me for this one. Lestrade, I must be going."

"You're not going to drug him and take his place in the auction, because I can only ignore so much Sherlock."

"You see, but don't observe," Sherlock said with the slightest quirk of a smile. "Tell Donovan I said to piss off."

He waved, and swept out.

Lestrade shook his head as the door fell shut. He didn't know what Sherlock was planning, but Lestrade had no intentions of sabotaging the auction, and certainly not Mycroft's participation in it. He still couldn't believe the elder Holmes had said yes. Briefly, when the man's PA had dropped off the photograph, Lestrade had considered tapping into some of his savings to make a bid. The thought of having Mycroft, enigmatic, powerful, and God help him, so far out of Lestrade's league as to redefine unattainable, at Lestrade's beck and call for a day made his mouth run dry. But he wouldn't have enough money to win, not once the audience got a look at Mycroft and heard him speak—unlike Sherlock, his elder brother had an exceptional command of basic social niceties. It was a bit over-controlled, to be sure, but endearing.

God but why did Lestrade always choose to fixate on the absolute wrong man.

Lestrade pushed the thought out of his mind, letting Sherlock's visit lose itself in the stream of paperwork he had to fill out and reports he had to write. He ordered takeaway Chinese on his way home, and feet propped up on the coffee table, turned on some crap Telly and began to eat.

That's when his phone buzzed with a text.

Fuck, if Sherlock had stumbled across another corpse, Lestrade didn't know, but there'd be cursing involved. More cursing.

Lestrade opened his text messages. Chinese food forgotten, he just stared.

_Please save me from this; bid on me, and I will do anything you ask me to do. -MH_

The number was blocked, of course. It had to be a trick. Was this what Sherlock meant by insufferable? But it sounded nervous. Unsure? Words Lestrade had no business associating with Mycroft. Why would Mycroft think he needed Lestrade's help in the auction? Maybe he just didn't want to go to a stranger? On the occasions where Lestrade had met with Mycroft, the other man had seemed almost inhumanely reserved.

That was the most reasonable explanation, though with Sherlock being involved, somehow, there was no reasonable explanation.

But if it was real...

Lestrade leaned back on his sofa, thinking, until his eyes grew heavy. When he woke the next morning, a thick crust had formed over his chicken and broccoli, and there was an extra £ 10,000 in his bank account.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're next," a woman in her late fifties with dark black hair drawn up into a flattering coif whispered in Mycroft's ear. She was the mother to one of the Yarders Sherlock had worked with for a case, M. Dimmock, her name tag read. She added, "Don't be nervous. If I wasn't married, I'd be bidding on you in a heartbeat."

Did he look nervous? Was it so obvious? Mycroft counted on his ability to conceal his emotions. He smiled, "Well that is unfortunate, as it would be my pleasure to have you bid upon me," he said. It would be his pleasure to have anyone bid upon him, especially someone he hadn't paid in advance to do the honours.

Mrs. Dimmock mock slapped Mycroft on the shoulder. "Oh, you are a charmer, love. You'll knock 'em dead."

As long as Mycroft didn't die of mortification himself, he'd consider the event a success. Before he could formulate an appropriate reply, Mrs. Dimmock gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. "Out with you, young man."

They announced his name and Mycroft stepped out onto the stage. New Scotland Yard had appropriated a school auditorium for the auction. They were making full use of the spotlights. Mycroft blinked the light from his eyes as the Master of Ceremonies stepped out to shake Mycroft's hand. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes, please, this way."

Mycroft followed. The Master of Ceremonies was a portly man with a receding hairline, glasses and a friendly grin. He led Mycroft to the centre of the stage, where another three people stood with clipboards: two women and a man.

The Master of Ceremonies began to read off a brief biography that Mycroft assumed his PA had written and submitted. It was a bit more ostentatious than Mycroft would have preferred, his natural inclination in public being to try and fade into the background so that he could better observe before taking action.

When the brief summary was finished, one of the women stepped forward, "Before we start the bidding, we collected some questions from our audience prior to the start of the event."

Past the spotlights, in their rows of wooden chairs, the audience was a shadowy mass. Mycroft quickly scanned towards the left, back of the audience, where he and Callisto had chosen to sit before all of the bachelors being auctioned had been given instructions to report backstage. She was there. She had to be. Mycroft didn't see Sherlock. Of course, he couldn't see much. Sherlock hadn't returned the money, however, which meant he would bid. No matter how Sherlock pretended at amorality, he had his code, not of honour, precisely, but he would keep his word when given. Of course, he would probably do it in such a way that was embarrassing as possible. What had Mycroft been thinking, to trust his brother with something he actually cared about?

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the woman smiled. "Do you mind if I call you Mycroft?" She was tall and thin with rich honey coloured skin and almond shaped dark brown eyes. She'd also recently been divorced or separated, judging by the tan line on her ring finger.

Mycroft said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "Please, you are welcome to call me what you wish."

"Oh, you are a proper gentlemen, aren't you?" Before Mycroft could respond, she continued, "My name is Helene."

"Pleasure," Mycroft said, with a slight bow at the waist.

Helene's lips quirked. "So it says here you work in the Department of Transport?"

"Yes, I mainly analyse traffic patterns so as to make recommendations for where a new highway might be best placed, or how to plan construction projects so as to minimize congestion." Mycroft gave a practised self deprecating smile. "Sadly, my position is but a minor one. I have no means to insure that my recommendations will be acknowledged let alone implemented."

Someone in the right, front section the audience went into a fit of coughing, then there was a grunt and the coughing silenced. Sherlock, of course. Mycroft repressed a wince. At least his brother had brought John along. Provided there wasn't violence or danger involved, John would keep Sherlock in check. Somewhat. Keeping his expression as bland as possible, Mycroft continued. "It's really quite dull. I endeavour not to converse on the subject."

"I see." The woman made a show of shuffling through her papers. "Well, ummm...it says in your biography that you play the cello."

"Yes."

"Have you ever played for an audience?"

"Not professionally. But I practice as often as my schedule allows."

"And you're a runner?"

"I'm training for a half marathon."

"Impressive."

Mycroft shrugged. "I didn't expect to like running, but I find it enjoyable. It's...refreshing to be in good health."

"It's sure done no harm to your figure." Helene grinned "Which leads me to what I consider to be our most provocative question." She lowered her voice. "How would you describe your perfect date?"

Mycroft stared. He couldn't well say he'd never seriously considered the question. It was just, well, what was the proper thing to say? A nice restaurant? Adventure? Maybe jetting to Paris, sharing languid kisses and red wine on a pavement cafe?

"This is a question I've given a lot of thought," Mycroft stalled. In truth, he wasn't particular about the trappings. It had been so long since he'd had a proper date; it would be enough that someone was attracted to him and wanted to spend time with him outside of a business arrangement. And wasn't that supremely pathetic? He needed someone who would challenge him. Support him. Something like his brother and Sherlock shared but without the reckless antics or self-delusion. And this was a question about a hypothetical date, not a marriage, Mycroft reminded himself.

"I don't know if I'm capable of executing a truly perfect date," Mycroft said. "Though if I was, my primary consideration would be my partner's enjoyment." Mycroft took another considering breath. He would have to say something of substance soon. And this was an opportunity, Mycroft realized. He had observed Lestrade enough to understand his interests and could tailor his responses accordingly. It was an idiots gambit; who even knew if Lestrade was in the audience, let alone if he would be responsive towards any suppositions Mycroft had developed from observing Lestrade's habits. But...bravery was the nobler side of stupid.

Mycroft said, "For example, people who choose a career in law enforcement are clearly under a great deal of daily pressure. Hours can be irregular and I can only imagine the difficult situations one is forced to deal with on a regular basis. As such, if we were to eat, I'd want to choose a restaurant of quality but not so posh that one could not relax. One of my favourite pubs is a bit off the beaten track, but they make the finest pan seared steak and sautéed mushrooms I've ever had the pleasure to taste." And far better than the steak restaurant Lestrade treated himself to on a monthly basis. "The atmosphere is pleasant and conducive to conversation, and they have a fine home brewed ale that suits the meat perfectly. Depending on my date's interests, afterwards we might go to a concert, or through my work I have access to executive seating at Wembley stadium, which would give me joy to share with an interested party for an evening."

Helene's eyes widened. "Impressive! Department of Transport has it's perks, doesn't it? Which team do you support?"

"Perhaps it would be better to reveal that after the bidding is complete," Mycroft said, smiling.

There was a flurry of laughter from the audience, in which Helene joined. Mycroft's shoulders tensed out of reflexive concern that the laughter was directed at him, but the sound held no rancour and Mycroft relaxed.

"Well, there we have it." Helene said, turning towards the audience. "Let's begin the bidding at £ 200 quid."

That was twice the starting bid of the last man who had been auctioned. Mycroft's mouth was dry. Seconds passed. What was taking his PA so long?

Then a woman's voice, not his PA, said, "250 quid."

Mycroft stood, blinking into the lights as more voices joined into the fray. Women and men. They were mostly strangers, though Mycroft did recognize one member of Lestrade's team. Donovan, if he remembered correctly. Obviously Callisto had opted not to participate since enough people were bidding—a miracle that more likely showed their interest in the charity rather than him, but was still far preferable to the wall of silence he had expected. Mycroft let the voices wash over him.

The bidding slowed at one thousand pounds. Not too embarrassing. There were only two voices left, a woman and a man. Mycroft hoped the woman won. Whatever manual labour she wanted him to do would provide exercise at least.

"One thousand, one hundred and twenty three pounds." Helene said. "Going once. Going twice."

"Two thousand."

It took a moment for Mycroft to recognize D.I. Lestrade's voice, a moment longer to comprehend it.

"That's two thousand pounds. Going once. Going twice." Helene took a breath. "Sold to our own Detective Inspector Lestrade!"

There was a smattering of applause as Mycroft walked back behind the stage. Lestrade had bid on him. Doubled the current bid in order to eliminate the competition. A part of him, the hopeful, childish part that always wished for impossible things, wondered if maybe it had been in part due to the answers he'd given to Helene's questions. Could Lestrade have some interest? Unlikely, but an investment of two thousand quid on a D.I.'s salary had to mean something.

Mycroft was in a daze as Mrs. Dimmock met him again behind the curtain. "You'll make arrangements at the reception desk, love. Have you the same interest in police work as your brother?"

The logic of her question settled heavily in Mycroft's gut. Police work. Of course. Did Lestrade intend to use him to solve a few cold cases, without the same lip or paperwork issues that his brother invariably caused? It made sense. And Mycroft could certainly devote a part of his attention towards such an assignment. Mycroft's strengths lay in his utility to others. He knew this. And maybe, if his deductions showed some utility, he might impress Lestrade to some extent. They might have coffee. Enjoy each others company. It was not the outcome he had longed for, but certainly the best he could expect.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade sat with his team in the centre, back of the auditorium, far enough away that Sally felt no problem with whispering commentary as each of the bachelors were brought on stage.

"Still don't know why you opted out, sir," Sally said between the third and fourth bachelor. "Helene was practically down on her knees, and after that calendar half of the ladies on the force would do more than pay for a shot at you. And a few of the men too, if the rumour mill can be believed."

God, that calendar: Sexy Detectives of Scotland Yard. They'd made him December, stuck him in a present, stripped him and then wrapped him in just enough ribbon to keep things legal. Just thinking about it made Lestrade's cheeks burn. "I thought we were never mentioning the calendar again."

"It's been Christmas in my sister's house for the past three months."

Sally's sister was at least fifteen years younger than him and married with two kids. It was flattering certainly, but now Lestrade wasn't sure if he'd be able to look her in the eye the next time she dropped by the Yard to take Sally to lunch. Lestrade said, "Put that on the list of things we never talk about again."

Sally placed a bid on the next man, a DS on Dimmock's team: tall, thin, with close cropped black hair and café au 'lait skin tone. After engaging in a bit of a bidding war, Sally yielded. "Mike'll be glad I got the price up."

"Mike huh?"

The auditorium filled with applause as Mike was led off the stage."Gay. The good ones always are." Sally gave Lestrade a measured look. "Holmes the elder is up next."

"We don't even know if he's gay."

"I knew it," Sally rubbed her palm over her forehead. "You can't...a Holmes? And I thought my taste was bad."

"Quiet."

Lestrade glanced down at his program. Was Mycroft even interested in men? Though he wore a wedding ring, he didn't act like a man in a relationship. His hours, for one, were worse than Lestrade's and Lestrade's hours had been one of the major things that had killed his marriage. Also, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock ever discussed Mycroft having any significant other. And there was the issue of the auction itself. Why would Mycroft choose to participate if he had someone waiting for him at home? Though if he did have a spouse, it would make sense why he'd essentially paid Lestrade off to bid on him.

Mycroft walked to the centre of the stage in measured steps and perfect posture, but he kept his right arm out at an awkward angle, as though wanting to hold something. An umbrella, possibly? It was the first time Lestrade had seen Mycroft without this preferred item. Even the in picture his PA had sent, Mycroft was leaning on it as though posed. On another man Lestrade might have assumed it was a nervous affectation, but Mycroft? He brought new meaning to the word poised.

"Think he's really married?" Lestrade asked.

Sally said, "He's not wearing a ring now."

Mycroft held the microphone in his left hand and his usual ring was indeed absent. "Some detective I am," Lestrade thought as Mycroft began to speak. Thankfully Sherlock and John had seated themselves closer to the front so Lestrade didn't have to deal with Sherlock's commentary. Or his and John's giggling at inappropriate moments.

Mycroft's demeanour was, refreshingly, the opposite of Sherlock. He hardly moved as he answered Helene's questions, only occasionally gesturing in precise motions to illustrate his points. If anything, Mycroft pushed to downplay everything of interest about himself. He was certainly fit, apparent even through layers of tailoring. And charming. His smile, though clearly practised, chipped a bit at his aura of impregnability. He spoke softly, and with almost painful enunciation as he described his imagined date.

"I can't believe he's a Holmes," Sally whispered as the Helene opened up the bid. "Of course, Sherlock can pull out the charm when it comes to witnesses."

"It's not the same," Lestrade said, with a certainty he had no idea how he'd arrived at. It was as though Mycroft had tailored the description to Lestrade alone, though judging by the reactions of the rest of the Yard, their families and friends, Mycroft had won quite a few admirers.

The bids rolled out with exceptional speed.

"£750," Sally said, raising the hand with the number plaque. She gave Lestrade a grim faced nod as she was outbid. "You see, too rich for our blood, sir."

Why on earth had Mycroft begged Lestrade to bid on him? Paid Lestrade to bid on him? Mycroft was a Holmes, so he certainly had his reasons. Many reasons, the most obvious being that with Lestrade paying for Mycroft with Mycroft's own money, Mycroft could appear to participate without actually having to participate. Was this just another move in the one-upmanship game that he and Sherlock had running? Not that either Holmes would deign to admit to such a game. It shouldn't have upset Lestrade so much to be caught in the middle of this. It was only infuriating because he'd had taken so long to see it. That and Mycroft had to know about Lestrade's idiot crush. Mycroft was at least as intelligent as his brother. It should be obvious to him, unless of course Lestrade was so beneath his notice that Lestrade's attraction genuinely hadn't registered.

Or maybe dealing with Sherlock on a regular basis had simply made Lestrade unnecessarily paranoid. In any sense, Lestrade wasn't going to play Mycroft's game. Yes, he'd bid. But he'd donate Mycroft's £10,000 pounds to the charity and use his own savings to pay for Mycroft instead. And they'd go to the football game, sit in Mycroft's fancy seats, eat sandwiches without crusts and then have steak and beer at Mycroft's posh pub. And Mycroft would enjoy it, whether he liked it or not.

"Going twice." Helene said.

Lestrade raised his hand. "Two thousand," he shouted, and then kicked himself. It was fine to double the bid when it wasn't your money, but he'd likely have done just as well with fifteen hundred.

Mycroft's eyes widened and his expression locked into place, his hand tightening on an umbrella handle that wasn't there. Surprise? Annoyance? Had he expected Lestrade to place a higher bid? Well tough. It wasn't Mycroft's money.

For a brief moment Lestrade tried to imagine what it would be like to genuinely undo Mycroft. To see him less than perfectly controlled: seated on the edge of some four poster bed, his waistcoat pooled at his hips, skin flushed, his shirt unbuttoned, the down of ginger hair peeking through the gap.

Lestrade blinked the image away.

"Sherlock's brother," Sally whispered. "You're paying for Sherlock's brother."

"It's for charity," Lestrade said.

"You know you're completely mad."

Excusing himself to move in sideways steps towards the aisle to claim his prize, Lestrade couldn't bring himself to disagree with her.


	5. Chapter 5

When Lestrade arrived at the table to claim his prize, Mycroft stood on the opposite side of the table. He did his best to maintain his composure. Lestrade had dressed casually for the event in jeans, a white shirt with the top two button undone, and a black suit jacket. The shirt hugged his compact frame in a way that accentuated the lean muscle of his chest. He looked at Mycroft with a brief smile before turning his attention to the lady at the desk.

"Two thousand, sir," the woman, mid forties with three cats and a tendency to biting the cuticles of her nails, began writing out Lestrade's receipt. "He's a right proper one. Hope you're not planning to drag him out on that motor bike of yours."

"Motorbike?" Mycroft asked, more to catalogue Lestrade's reaction than a general query for information. The dossier had included information and photographs of the completed machine. In Mycroft's weaker moments, he'd even viewed some of the CCTV footage of Lestrade riding it.

"Rebuilt it from parts," Lestrade said with obvious pride. "Took me almost a year."

"Impressive."

Lestrade shrugged. "Could have done it faster if it hadn't been such a banner year for crime." He pulled out his chequebook and quickly wrote in the amount. "You do realize you're going to owe me big for this."

Certainly, Mycroft did. "Of course. How many cold cases had you wanted me to look over?"

"Cold cases?" Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I am perfectly capable of doing my own police-work, thank you."

Lestrade hadn't even handed over the payment, and already Mycroft was fouling things up. If he'd gone to North Korea so unbalanced, he'd certainly have caused an international incident. "I didn't mean to offend you," Mycroft said. "I apologize."

Lestrade's lips quirked. " An apology is it? You certainly are a step up from your brother." Lestrade's gaze flicked over Mycroft, and his face blossomed into a smile. "A step and a half. I accept your apology, but only because you said it so nicely."

Lestrade's smile, the attention, it set a warm stone in the base of Mycroft's belly, and he found himself returning the expression and sentiment without thought. "Thank you."

Hopeless. How utterly hopeless.

Lestrade handed the first cheque over and began writing a second. "And I'd like to donate this anonymously for the charity," he said.

Mycroft easily read the amount upside down. Ten thousand quid. It couldn't be a coincidence. "You are incredibly generous."

"Me?" Lestrade shrugged. "Hardly."

The evidence slotted itself into place, and Mycroft's hope (foolish and ever sprouting thing) was erased again in a swipe of cold logic. It all made sense now. Sherlock had given the money to Lestrade and had talked Lestrade into making the bid. Lestrade's sense of honour hadn't allowed him to simply use the money, or keep any portion of it, hence his insistence on paying for Mycroft from his own savings and then donating the rest. It was humiliating. Worse than simply not being bid on at all. Mycroft was tempted to pretend he hadn't figured it out to spare himself putting his humiliation into words, but that was hardly fair to Lestrade, who he admired and respected, never mind the rest. When Lestrade finished making his payment and they had stepped away from the table into the lobby (which was blessedly empty as Mycroft did not want an audience for this), Mycroft said, "Sherlock put you up to this, didn't he?"

"Sherlock? What are you talking about? You're the one who sent me that text and practically begged me to—oh God..."

"You thought I'd texted you?"

"It was a blocked number but signed with your initials, as you Holmeses do. You asked me to bid on you. You seemed..." Lestrade averted his gaze. "Rather keen...but of course it was Sherlock, the childish prat," Lestrade's voice lowered and intensified in anger, like coal under heavy pressure, and his face suffused with colour. "That's what he was getting at before, in my office. Fuck. Fucking wanker. I know he's your brother but-and I thought-"

"I'll see to it your money is returned. You should have no obligation to me."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, his head bowed, gaze focused on the floor. "Well, of course, I mean, it makes sense. You'd never have sent that text. I mean, seriously, you'd do anything to have me bid on you. I should have seen through it from the start."

Of course Sherlock had passed along to Lestrade the exact copy of Mycroft's text. He'd known the rivalry between himself and Sherlock ran deep, but he hadn't expected Sherlock to descend through his usual childish petulance into the realm of cruel. Once upon a time, Sherlock had followed behind Mycroft with small presents in beakers wrapped in bits of string. Admired him. Loved him even. It was obvious now that sentiment had completely burned away. Mycroft heart was compressing; it beat with pain. "You're a kind man, Detective Inspector, but I have no expectation that a day spent with me would be to your interest. You are welcome to take anyone you wish to use the executive seats. I leave them at your disposal for the season." Mycroft could certainly find some other way to entertain his athletically minded associates. Just standing in that box would only remind him of idiot hopes and unfulfilled dreams. "Now if you will please excuse me."

"Wait!" Lestrade stepped towards Mycroft diagonally, positioning himself between Mycroft and the door.

"Yes?"

"What if..." Lestrade took a breath and his posture straightened. "What if I wanted to spend the day with you?" His gaze was so earnest and so impossible it hurt.

Could Lestrade mean it? Hope fluttered in Mycroft's chest, a bird whose neck was better snapped. Mycroft said, "I recognize you are an honourable man, but I don't need your pity." He had intended his tone to be confident, dispassionate, but his voice caught on the word 'pity' and face hot, he averted his gaze.

"Pity? My God. You have no idea do you? Do you really think a copper would drop two thousand quid of his retirement on pity? And here you are so fucking tall and glacial and brilliant and put together and a little mad but that's okay because after dealing with your brother and John a little mad is like a barrel of sanity in comparison, and if I'd thought I had the slightest chance, I would have asked you out for a pint a year ago, and you're telling me this is pity. How can you be so unbelievably thick?"

"You find me..." Attractive? It seemed too alien to say within the context of himself. "You wanted to ask me for a pint?" Mycroft's mouth was dry. "Are you sure?"

Before Mycroft could work out the reasoning, Lestrade had closed the distance between them. He hooked his index finger above the knot of Mycroft's tie and gently tugged down. Mycroft lowered his head, and they were kissing. It was soft at first, Lestrade's mouth warm with the waxy sweetness of cherry flavoured lip balm. Mycroft let his hand rest between Lestrade's shoulder blades as the kiss deepened, Lestrade slipping his left hand under Mycroft's jacket. Their tongues met, sending tickling thrills through Mycroft's body. It had been so long since Mycroft had done this with someone he had some inkling of caring about. A noise caught in his throat, something between a moan and a whimper.

When they parted, Mycroft's breathing was laboured, his suit in disarray.

Lestrade grinned. "So how about Saturday? Though Wembley's is out if we're going to catch a game before the Cardiff Cup. I assume you'll be picking me up?"

"Yes." Mycroft struggled to steady his breathing well enough to speak. "It would be my pleasure, Detective Inspector."

"Greg."

"Excuse me?"

"Once a man has had his tongue in my mouth, he's earned the right to call me by my given name."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caught up to my posting on the meme. Going to try and keep this updating as quickly as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein two men ride a lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: In the last chapter, there was much talk of going to Wembley stadium to see a football game in Mycroft's Executive Seating. Alas, looking over the Wembley stadium events schedule made this an obvious no-go, so I've retroactively changed the plan by changing one sentence in the last chapter to reflect that there are no football games at Wembley during this time. Apologies. I really tried to figure out how to make it work without doing this sort of modification, but I didn't have a better idea so here goes.

Lestrade was glad that no major (and especially no interesting) crimes happened over the next week. He'd have been useless for them anyway. Lord, that kiss. Lestrade didn't know how he'd worked up the guts to try it, and he'd half expected the other man to shove him away, or return the gesture with mechanical precision if not enthusiasm, but instead Mycroft had practically melted into Lestrade, and that whimper. God. The thought that a simple kiss had inspired such response was overwhelming. A part of Lestrade didn't trust his experience, terrified that this might be some sort of experiment: how could someone as assured as Mycroft assume Lestrade's obvious interest was a form of pity? And he'd certainly seemed well composed when he'd called on Wednesday to coordinate their schedules. The call had come from a blocked number and they'd managed five minutes of inane banter before someone, not speaking English, had called Mycroft away.

But while Lestrade couldn't claim (and was pretty sure he was happier without) the genius of either of the Holmes brothers, years on the force had given him a good ability to read people. Even Sherlock's manufactured emotions became transparent after a while. It was possible Mycroft had been acting, but Lestrade's gut said Mycroft's awkwardness had been genuine. Which left Lestrade with the rather fascinating problem of how to draw Mycroft out of his shell, and if the date went well, out of whatever mastery of tailoring Mycroft chosen for their day together.

Lestrade stood in front of his bed, hair still damp from the shower, considering the three shirts he'd placed on the duvet with the critical attention of a teenager with a crush. It would be better if Mycroft had given at least some idea of what they were actually doing. Not that Lestrade minded surprises, in the right context. And this was definitely the right context. Probably. Mycroft had said casual dress, which for Lestrade meant some combination of jeans and t-shirt, but this was Mycroft who had probably never so much as owned a pair of jeans.

Lestrade took a breath and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Assumptions, Greg," he muttered to himself. He really didn't know a thing about Mycroft's casual clothing preferences. Did Mycroft have casual clothing preferences? Did he have casual clothing? He couldn't bum about his home in a three piece suit. (The thought of Mycroft in night clothes—though he probably swathed himself into some neck to toes dressing gown like his brother favoured—was strangely endearing.)

On Lestrade's night-stand, his mobile vibrated with a text.

Cancelling? No, Mycroft wouldn't cancel by text. Lestrade picked up the phone.

"When you wear the blue button down to interrogate witnesses, you tend to have an on average 1-2 minute longer conversation than when you wear other shirts. The effect is more pronounced when you factor out from the sample heterosexual males." -SH

Lestrade read the text twice. God help him, but was Sherlock Holmes now giving fashion advice for dating his brother? It could easily be a trick. Maybe Mycroft despised blue. Though Sherlock's machinations thus far hadn't really caused harm. If anything they'd been instrumental towards facilitating today's date. Lestrade took the shirt and put it on. It certainly made him look fit, and it brought out his eyes. Good enough. Lestrade quickly finished dressing, dabbed on some cologne, and combed his hair.

The bell rang at exactly three. Of course Mycroft would be perfectly punctual. Lestrade's mouth was dry when he walked to the door. He'd cleaned his flat the night before, just in case Mycroft had decided to step in. Hopefully he wouldn't. It was obvious enough that Lestrade and Mycroft walked in different circles. A prolonged stay in Lestrade's flat would only call attention to that reality.

Lestrade opened the door.

In deference to the informality of the event, Mycroft had sacrificed the waistcoat and tie and unfastened the topmost button of his shirt. His trousers were still perfectly creased, of course, and he wore a pair of black Oxfords that looked like they'd just been taken out of the box. His gaze flitted over Lestrade, his green eyes narrowing in a way that seemed to sharpen the angles of his face. "Detective Inspector."

"Greg," Lestrade said, "Remember?"

"Greg," Mycroft said, his expression softening as his lips quirked upwards. "Thank you...Greg."

"You're welcome...Mycroft."

Mycroft was definitely smiling now, a restrained grin that didn't show his teeth. Today, Lestrade resolved, he'd get Mycroft to forget himself long enough to laugh. Lestrade tapped at his pocket for his keys and wallet, and then grabbing the blazer from the hook, pulled the door shut behind him. "You're lucky you weren't here yesterday. The lift was out of commission for a week. They only just fixed it."

"An oversight," Mycroft said. They started down the corridor. "But I'd have walked up in any case."

"Eight flights?" Lestrade laughed. "You must be incredibly fit." A fact Lestrade had already gleaned to some extent when he'd pressed himself to Mycroft to kiss him. The corridor was dimly lit, with paisley print carpeting and a mirror across from the lift. Lestrade said, "Maybe we should take the stairs down," and then before he lost his nerve added, "I've really been looking forward to this. Have to admit, I was a bit worried there that there that I might get stuck with a new serial murderer or you some secret governmental disaster to be averted."

Mycroft kept his gaze firmly focused on the lift doors. "I wouldn't have cancelled."

"No, neither would I." Lestrade added, "I'm glad you left the tie home. It's good to see you more...informal." He'd have said relaxed, but there was a tension in the set of Mycroft's shoulders and his determined gaze that belied the almost surreal calm of his tone.

"Considering today's agenda, business attire would be problematic."

"And what is today's agenda? I admit, I've been curious."

"The effect would be rather lost given an explanation," Mycroft said. "I understand I'm asking for a great deal of trust, considering..."

"I'm not jumping out of any aeroplanes, if that's what you've planned."

"Never." Mycroft coughed. "No. I mean, I don't like heights."

"Well, good then. I'm glad that's settled."

"Besides, I think your current work probably provides you with enough peril, especially in the wake of my brother."

"He's gotten better since John moved in." Well, better was a strong term, since John was, for all of his surface normality, just as cracked as Sherlock. But John was also military trained, and he gave Sherlock a reason to hesitate before throwing himself willy-nilly into a life or death situation, so it did improve things.

The quirk of Mycroft's lips made it clear that he'd understood what Lestrade had left unsaid and possibly concurred. Mycroft said, "I envy them sometimes. Not the unrelenting chaos, but finding someone so well suited, it's a gift."

"Well, if Sherlock and John can manage it, should be easier for the rest of us, don't you think?"

"Hmm."

The lift arrived and Lestrade followed Mycroft in. Normally this would have afforded a good view of his bottom, but the suit jacket fell low. It was a shame. Mycroft walked to the back of the elevator and turned around. Lestrade followed, leaning against the back wall. The elevator was cramped enough that their hips touched. Lestrade said, "You know one benefit of a cheap flat?"

"Excuse me?"

Lestrade shifted his weight and looked up, angling his face towards Mycroft. "No security cameras." Lestrade reached for Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft sidestepped, pulling his hand away. "I'm sorry."

Lestrade's face heated. "No, I shouldn't have." Shouldn't have what? Taken liberties? Misread the situation so badly? Sherlock's words drifted through Lestrade's mind: you see but you don't observe. What had he observed? Mycroft was, today as always, incredibly reserved. They hadn't hugged or even shaken hands when Mycroft came to his door. What else had they shared? A five minute phone call? And Lestrade had initiated their first and only kiss. Certainly, Mycroft had seemed responsive, but maybe he'd simply been playing along. Excessive politeness? Mycroft had a poor assessment of his physical attractiveness, but gratitude for Lestrade's interest didn't automatically make it mutual. How fucking humiliating...for both of them. Lestrade was going to strangle Sherlock within an inch of his life the next time he came to the Yard, never mind that John would have Lestrade on the ground with bones broken just after his hands wrapped around Sherlock's skinny neck.

Lestrade took a breath. Like making a statement to the press, best to do this quickly and calmly. "I really also apologize for any assumptions I might have made about what we were doing today. You know, this auction thing, it doesn't have to be a date. I'm happy to just get to know you better. As a friend." No, friendship implied too many liberties. "As an associate."

Mycroft's face was flushed, his gaze fixed firmly on the far doors. "This is my fault." He leaned over and pressed the emergency stop button. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"You can't help it if you're not interested Mycroft," Lestrade said. "I meant what I said though. You're an attractive, brilliant man. I'm sure you'll find someone who suits you." Lestrade was just surprised nobody had snapped Mycroft up before now. The world was, clearly as Sherlock described it, full of idiots.

Mycroft said, "Of course I'm interested."

"What? I mean, good. Great!" The relief was like a bird taking flight. Lestrade grinned. It was good to know Lestrade hadn't lost all of his perceptive skills, even though he was now, if possible, even more confused. "So, you just want to take it slow?" Maybe Mycroft thought kissing was only for after the date was over, like in films for teenagers. Well, films for teenagers from thirty years ago. It made sense, actually, as much as anything with a Holmes did.

"Yes. No. I mean, just not here, like this."

"Right. I didn't mean to get pushy."

"Because I've had surveillance put in this building. Namely cameras in the entrance, the stairwells, lifts, the corridor leading to your flat as well as the floors above and below, and motion sensors on your outside windows."

Lestrade studied the lift's walls. It was the usual patchwork of haphazardly applied off-white paint, but no telltale flash where a camera lens might be embedded. "Where?"

"Military issue are far more easily concealed than the types sold commercially."

"Right."

"Your association with my brother made it necessary, though the surveillance was increased when Sherlock began to attract the attention of major players of the criminal world."

"How long? I only moved into this flat six months ago, after the separation."

"Yes, your former residence was also under similar surveillance, though it was a bit less extensive as most of the outside views were accessible via CCTV."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"I promise you, I endeavoured to keep the invasion of privacy to a minimum."

"Fuck." Lestrade rubbed his forehead with his palm. "I thought John was taking the piss when he said you'd had him kidnapped. So what, there's a poor sap in some basement office whose job it is to watch me go to work, fight with my ex, and occasionally bring home a bloke to shag all because I happen to be the unlucky DI your brother attached himself to so he could gain access to crime scenes?"

"No."

"You can't say nobody looks at it."

"Only my PA and I have access to the data."

"Well..."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not. I'm ticked off." And Lestrade was too, the sort of furious that gripped the muscles of his neck and made his stomach feel acid. "Did you bug the inside of my flat too?"

"No."

"Well, that's something."

"You are, from what I've gleaned, one of a very rare breed of person who actually lives the same life in private as in public. It's truly admirable."

"I'm glad your years of surveillance have allowed you to hold me in such high regard. So, did you kidnap me too and just erase my memory after?"

"It's not a film." Mycroft's neutral tone broke and he sounded genuinely annoyed. "Besides, I had no need to kidnap you. Your role in Sherlock's life was absolutely predictable."

"Wonderful." Lestrade managed to maintain a level tone, which he felt was a true accomplishment. To think, he'd been worried about the disparity of information that Mycroft would glean simply by looking inside his apartment. But this was worse. The blazing intelligence, observing and creating theories from fragments of information, that was simply a part of the Holmes package. But surveillance over months, possibly years, had rendered Lestrade in Mycroft's words, 'absolutely predictable'. What was the point? What was Mycroft even doing? Lestrade said, "Listen, seriously, I appreciate the gesture of goodwill, but I think we should call this for today. I'm glad we were both able to donate so generously for the charity."

"I'll have all of the cameras removed. I promise."

"Don't bother. You'll just end up paying some poor aide to do the same thing." Lestrade took a breath. It wasn't really any worse than the CCTV, and the building did need better security. He wouldn't have been upset if the landlord had installed cameras. Of course in that instance, Lestrade would have also been informed. "And you have access to my work records as well. Case closing ratios. Evaluations."

"I would never abuse a trust."

"We don't have a trust. You trust me because you know everything about me. And what do I know? That you play the cello and your brother is convinced you're the British government." Lestrade was too short to reach the emergency stop from where he was standing, so he budged up off the wall and crossed the two steps to the other side of the lift. "Thank you for your honesty. I'll see you out."

Mycroft grabbed his arm."Wait." His face had a mask-like calm, but his voice was fragile. "Please. Allow me to finish."

"It's not...I like you Mycroft, it's just seriously...what can I offer you? Not even novelty it seems."

"I have myself under extensive surveillance too," Mycroft said. "I'll have my PA load the footage onto a secure laptop and send it over. Everything that's not classified. Take as long as you need to look it over. That should resolve the information disparity, shouldn't it?"

It was, as far as compromises went, absolutely nutters. Did Mycroft really think Lestrade had hours and hours to look over years of footage of Mycroft entering and leaving his flat? "I don't really think that's necessary."

"Because everything I know about you, at this point, is irrelevant."

"Excuse me?"Lestrade turned to Mycroft, the distance between them too comfortably close. Mycroft smelled of soap and a hint of aftershave. His grip on Lestrade's arm had loosened, until the weight of flesh on flesh seemed almost feather light.

Mycroft's eyes, more square than round, had a greenish cast as he spoke, "I know you prefer cooking, but when you're too tired you order sweet and sour chicken from one of three Chinese takeaways. I know you prefer strawberry ice cream and white wines, but I don't know how any of these things taste on your lips. I know you like to reconstruct motorcycles, but I don't know how you feel when you ride one. I know you have a large family, and that somehow you manage to maintain congenial relations with all of them, but I cannot say how you manage it. I know you're an intelligent and attractive man who has no difficulty pulling either men or women when you are so inclined, but you chose instead to spend a significant amount of money to spend a day with me for no obvious gain or advantage that I can understand.

"Okay, okay. I got it." Lestrade was undecided as to whether he was going to fall over from shock, desire, delight or simply emulsify in the focus of Mycroft's gaze. Was this pathological or sweet? Did it even matter?

"I'm almost finished," Mycroft said, and took a breath. "Your role in my brother's life I initially viewed as both boring and predicable. But I am not my brother. I do not yet have the information required to predict your role in mine."

God, how much passion was in this man, hidden beneath layers of tailoring and masks? It was hard to maintain a proper temper after hearing that. Hell, it was hard to maintain even breathing. Lestrade said, "You're much better at apologizing than your brother."

"I have more practice."

"And you're forgiven."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "I am?"

"Yes," Lestrade leaned back and with his free hand depressed the emergency stop. "But if you make any other recording of me you do I expect to be informed. This holds doubly true if I'm naked."

As the lift slowed, Mycroft's face was bright red. Lestrade leaned lifted his forearm and placed a light kiss on the top of Mycroft's hand. The doors opened.

"About time." Mrs. Donnelly on the fifth floor stood on the opposite side, leaning on a cane, a bag of groceries at her feet. She'd died her hair purple, and wore a matching shirt and lipstick.

"I'm sorry, police business," Lestrade said, feeling in his pocket automatically for his ID, which was of course, missing.

"Bullocks that," Mrs. Donnelly said. "The lift was stopped for a full five minutes. You kids want to enjoy your antics that's your business, but I've waited a week for the lift to start working again so I could do my food shopping. Do you have any idea what it's like walking up four flights with this replacement knee?"

Mycroft detached himself from Lestrade and took the bag. "Perhaps it would be best if we help you take this up."

"That's very polite, young man. You're a good one." Mrs. Donnelly stepped onto the lift with surprising quickness and held out her hand. "Give it here. I'll be fine. And you take good care of this one, Detective Inspector. He seems a bit flushed. Could be a fever."

As the doors shut, Lestrade was almost certain he'd seen Mrs. Donnelly wink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough start, the date continues. 
> 
> I wrote this a year ago and forgot I had it. Unpicked/Unbetaed. There's more beyond that as I'm picking his one back up. Hope you like. All errors are mine, obviously :)

Mycroft didn't make a habit of disbelieving facts. It was a failing one who aspired to power could ill afford, but he couldn't help but wonder at the Detective Inspector...no, Greg's continued interest in this outing. Greg had been well within his rights to flee with the revelation of the surveillance, let alone Mycroft's desperate attempts to fix the problem through progressive revelation of his own ignorance, obsession and sentiment. Instead Greg seemed willing, even enthusiastic, to see this through. It was, in short, a miracle, something Mycroft generally defined as the result of a poor analysis of variables leading to a positive outcome, but he'd be a fool not to take advantage of it for as long as it lasted.

As they stepped out onto the pavement, Mycroft wanted to reach out and touch the other man, just to assure himself that this all wasn't a figment of his imagination. This was Mycroft's only chance. What had he read, compliment your partner. Make him comfortable. It was just like working a room at an official function. Mycroft had found himself better at intimidation, but if he applied his mind properly, he would certainly get results.

He couldn't, to put it vulgarly, allow himself to arse things up further.

“That shirt really suits you,” Mycroft said.

“Thanks. Your brother recommended it.”

“Sherlock!”

“Indirectly. He sent a text this morning saying this shirt gave me increased efficacy when questioning witnesses,” Greg said with a lopsided grin that left an unfortunate tickling sensation in Mycroft's guts. “One might even think he cared.”

“Yes, well Sherlock has always been prone to sentiment, as much as he would have it otherwise,” Mycroft said, absently.

“And you?” Greg asked.

“It's not...” What was the best answer? His work, his life really, required a certain ruthlessness that he'd cultivated since early adolescence. Power was the only thing that had mitigated the deficiencies of his weight, slowness, clumsiness, and the ease with which his intelligence allowed him to sail academically far ahead of his peers. And it certainly aided in his service of Queen and country. But that was hardly something to endear one to a potential romantic partner. Besides, Mycroft did have a vein of sentiment running through his character. He'd never denied it to himself, though he'd found it more efficacious to ignore such weaknesses in his daily life. Better a glacier than a volcano. “Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft said. “But one does...at points.”

“I admit it's sometimes a pain in the arse, but it's not so dire as all of that. My ex-wife and I, and Daniel and I, I wouldn't change the memories. I think the problem comes more when caring isn't enough. Or one side cares more than the other. Or in a way the other can't accept.”

“You're far too honorable to allow a simple reduction in passion to end an important relationship,” Mycroft said. “There was obviously a betrayal of trust. Multiple betrayals. And you idiotically persist in blaming yourself.”

“Yeah, you're definitely Sherlock's brother,” Lestrade said, but his voice was more amused than angry. “So, are we taking a taxi then?”

As if Mycroft would subject the Detect...Greg to a public conveyance for their date...outing, it was appalling.

Something must have shown on Mycroft's face, because Greg burst out laughing. “I'm sorry, it's just, usually you have the black coach. I mean, anything is fine. We could take my bike even.

Mycroft was overwhelmed with the vision of his chest pressed to Greg's back as he gripped the other man, close enough to smell his aftershave and feel the contours of his body...he was a fool. “I prefer to drive myself when I'm not working,” Mycroft said. Even so, he had briefly considered having them driven, but he'd had suspected (and been proven right) that John had mentioned the circumstances of their initial meeting to Greg. Better not to flavor their time together with kidnapping and attempted bribery. Besides, driving oneself was more personal, and it allowed an excuse for prolonged silences, which was Mycroft's general response to stress. Hence the Diogenes.

Even Mycroft's considerable power couldn't afford him a parking spot directly in front of the estate; they had to walk to the end of the block. Lestrade's eyes widened when his gaze fell on the 1958 Astin Healey 100 convertible and he gave a light whistle through his teeth. “That's a nice car.”

Mycroft's lips turned up with irrational pride. “Thank you.”

“It's yours?” Lestrade laughed. “Of course it's yours. Minor government position my arse.”

“There are some benefits,” Mycroft said. He had a FOB that would work the locks automatically, but it seemed a bit of a sacrilege, so he walked to the passenger’s side and slipped his key in before pulling the car open. Greg stepped in. His left hand moved fractionally towards the inside door handle, as though he'd intended to pull it shut behind him but thought better of it. Had the gesture of politeness made Greg uncomfortable? Or maybe Greg was just generally nervous. Probably the admission that Mycroft had put the detective inspector under long term surveillance. Mycroft shut the door and quickly worked his way around the driver's seat.

Mycroft had given a good half an hour of padding before they reached the museum, so he had no concern about being late. He was concerned that he'd miscalculated. What if Greg didn't like it, which was patently ridiculous because Mycroft had studied Greg's interests and done as best as he could within the boundaries of England to meet them. Mycroft knew his best to be exceptional, so he really had no reason to be concerned. He would handle the consequences in any case.

Mycroft started the car and they were soon weaving through traffic. The wind whipped nicely through Greg's hair. Mycroft found himself stealing glances. Yes, the convertible had been the best choice.

“You drive like a bat out of hell,” Greg said with a grin, after a minute had gone by. “It's a good thing I'm not in the traffic department. I'd have to pull you over.”

“The car has diplomatic plates.”

“Of course. Well, it rides smooth, I'll tell you that. Must have cost you a fortune.”

“Not so much. I did the bodywork myself.”

“Really?” The surprised appreciation in Greg's voice was unmistakable. He ran his palm along the seat leather. “You Holmes's don't do anything less than your best, do you?”

Mycroft's cheeks warmed. “I--” He would not be reduced to stuttering over a simple compliment. He received compliments daily. Generally, they were empty, or worse, a prelude to requests or bribery, but the principal was the same. “It's a work in progress.”

“Let me guess, you bought it as a frame with three wheels and no engine.”

“The car had all four wheels.”

Greg burst out laughing again, and then surprised Mycroft by asking a detailed question about the engine reconstruction. They passed a pleasant twenty minutes talking about vehicle mechanics. “When they pulled into the London Motorcycle Museum, Lestrade said, “Wow, I haven't been here in years.”

Three years and four months to be precise, but Mycroft knew better than to be precise. “It's not football,” Mycroft said. “But I thought you might like it.”

“I do. I do. Man, this brings me back.” The museum was located on a farm; it was made up of three unprepossessing brick buildings with the British flag over the door of the main entrance. Greg took off his coat and then slipped out of his suit jacket. “You don't mind if I leave this here, do you? I like to get down and look under things, when I can. I think I'll leave the coat too.”

“However you're comfortable,” Mycroft said, contemplating his own attire. He felt...odd...venturing out in only shirtsleeves, but it would certainly be more appropriate to the venue and he didn't want to make Greg uncomfortable. Besides, if things went well, there was a possibility that Greg might...they might...that more might be revealed, and if that was the case, it would be better to go about this stepwise. Good tailoring could hide a great deal. Mycroft depended on this. Better to let Greg form his own impressions in a manner that held for minimal loss of face. So Mycroft quietly removed his waistcoat as well, though he couldn't quite bring himself to roll his sleeves up to his elbows as Greg had.

As they walked to the entrance, Greg said, “I used to love coming here when I was a DS, back when I at least had some semblance of predictability on my weekends. But you already knew that.” The air outside was cold enough that puffs of white flowed from Greg's mouth as he spoke.

“Not exactly,” Mycroft said. “I mean, we didn't seriously begin surveillance on you until after you were promoted.” And while it would have certainly been possible to acquire the data, Mycroft felt in an odd way that it would offer an unfair advantage. “But I... guessed it was someplace you might like.”

Greg's lips quirked. “Deduced, more like.”

“I leave deduction to my brother.”

“Well, call it what you like, you were right. I hardly have any time these days for hobbies, though I guess you know all about that what with being the government and all.”

Sherlock really needed to stop telling people that. It could make things difficult, though difficult was pretty much synonymous with Sherlock anyway. “My brother really has an inflated opinion of my own importance.”

“I doubt it,” Greg said mildly. He made a reach for the door handle, but Mycroft managed to grab it first and hold it open. He felt foolishly glad for this small success. He was just foolishly glad. He hoped Greg would enjoy the surprise Mycroft had planned at least enough to forget that incident in the elevator. Not that Mycroft would forget, neither the squirming embarrassment nor the fact that Greg had wanted to kiss him a second time. No matter how the day turned out, Mycroft could hold onto that memory and be glad of it.

“You should smile more,” Greg said, his head cocked slightly as he crossed the threshold. “Like that.”

Mycroft raised his fingers to his lips. Yes, he was smiling, without his own knowledge or permission. Remarkable.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of it (except my OCs). I'm not making any money off of this. Please don't sue me. I have nothing.


End file.
